As I windwalk, a howling gale sweeps through the long stretches of parched land, peppered with dirt devils and the occasional dust storm. The last time I dealt with weather this unnatural, the Nightbringer was behind it. I have no doubt that he and his ilk are behind this too. Only a day after I set out, I must take shelter.

It’s been years since I traveled with a caravan, so I force myself to sift through my recollections of the Blood Shrike. We had plenty of hidey-holes out here when we were Fivers. One memory stands out: she dared me to burgle a massive pot of rice pudding bubbling in the middle of a Tribal camp. It was a stupid dare, but we were hungry and it smelled good. We escaped the Tribesmen who came after us only through sheer luck; we stumbled on a nearby cave and hid for three days.

As I make for that same cave now, I think about how, to this day, I’ve never tasted anything as good as that rice pudding. It’s sweeter because you almost died stealing it, Helene said, grinning as we stuffed our faces. Makes you appreciate every bite.

The cave was near a massive escarpment several hours north of Aish, and I’m relieved to find that not only is it still there, but that the stream nearby runs high. I don’t like being stuck—I don’t like anything that will keep me from carrying out my duty. But at least I won’t suffer from thirst.

I start a small fire just outside the cave and take in my reflection in the stream—my face, hair, and clothes are all a pale, sand-blasted beige.

“You might well be one of us, Banu al-Mauth,” a deep voice says. “Though we would not be fool enough to ride winds such as these.”

A diaphanous figure steps into the firelight. At first, I am confused, for despite its shape, it cannot possibly be human.

“Rowan Goldgale,” the figure says. “We have met before.”

I recognize the name. “Yes,” I say. “You tried to murder my friend and me during the Trials. Now you and your fellow sand efrits are burning Tribal wagons and ransacking villages.”

“All are actions we have been forced to take.” Rowan steps closer, and I look behind him, wondering if he’s brought his marauding fellows with him. But he shakes his sandy head.

“I come alone, Banu al-Mauth, in humility and sincerity, in the hopes that you might hear my plea.”

I bid him sit and he crosses his legs on the floor of the cave, his form growing solid enough that I can make out a beak-like nose and thin lips.

“The Nightbringer moves against the human world.” As Rowan speaks, he gestures. The sand on my face, hair, and clothes drifts into a cloud, dropping into a neat pile, leaving me looking marginally more human. “He has enslaved my kind and sworn us to silence, but his plans—”

The king of the sand efrits shudders and I lean forward. Efrits have always struck me as having a sort of malicious mischievousness. But Rowan couldn’t be more serious.

Human world. I think of Laia, of the Blood Shrike, and my curiosity gets the better of me.

“What are his plans? He’s already killing at will.”

“My vows prevent me from sharing his plans, but—”

“That’s convenient,” I say. “Then why mention them?”

“Because my people read the desert winds as the Augurs read their dreams. They see a great commander who—”

“Do they see anything about the Waiting Place?” I ask. Rowan appears taken aback. I suppose kings rarely get interrupted.

“There is rot in the forest and I need to know why. Do your wind prophecies mention it?”

“Nay, Banu al-Mauth. But—”

“If you have nothing to tell me about the Nightbringer’s plans or the Waiting Place,” I say, “then I’m uninterested in what you saw.” I stand, and the efrit, startled, rises as well.

“Please, Banu al-Mauth. You are destined for more than this—”

“Don’t make me sing, Rowan.” I think of a tune someone crooned to me long ago. Efrit, efrit of the sand, a song is more than he can stand. “I have a rubbish voice. Like a cat getting strangled.”

“You will wish—”

“Lady Cassia Slaughter was a wrinkled old hag,” I sing, “but it’s said that her daughter was a mighty fine sha—”

The foul little sea shanty is the first song that comes to me, and before I finish the verse, Rowan howls and disappears, leaving only a cloud of dust in his wake.

When the cave is silent again, I turn to my dinner. The efrit was likely a ruse sent by the Nightbringer to distract me from my mission. The creatures cannot be trusted. It was efrits, after all, who tried to kill the Shrike and me during the Trials. Efrits who burned down Shaeva’s cabin.

Still I feel uneasy. What if Rowan wasn’t a ruse? What if I should have heard him out?

For a long time, I do not sleep. I sit by the fire, carving shapes into Laia’s armlet. When I lay my head down, Mauth’s magic finally stirs and smooths the unease away. By the time I wake, the efrit and his warning are forgotten.

* * *

«««

I reach Aish the next night, well after sunset. I haven’t been here in years—not long ago it was nothing but a seasonal trading post built around an oasis. But since I came here as a Blackcliff Fiver, Aish has burgeoned into a permanent settlement.

Like most Tribal cities, its population is fluid. But the Commandant’s assault on Sadh has swelled the city with refugees. The whitewashed buildings, built three and four stories high, are lined with archers. The many gates are flung open, each more crowded than the last with some people seeking shelter and others fleeing.

North of the walls, the Nasur encampment is in disarray. A steady stream of wounded trickles in—mostly women and children—all speaking of the fall of the city of Sadh.

“The Martials take no slaves, nor prisoners,” a white-haired woman tells the Nasur Kehanni. “They just kill.”

Briefly, I wonder if Laia ever arrived here. She was headed for Aish. You’re here for Aubarit, Soul Catcher. Not Laia.

Tribe Nasur is not the only one taking refuge north of the city gates. I recognize the green and gold wagons of Tribe Nur, and the green and silver of Tribe Saif. As I survey the vast encampment, searching for the Fakira’s wagon, a familiar, dark-haired figure hurries past.

She holds two injured children, and at the sight of her, I nearly call out. I should know her from my own memories, but instead it is the memories Cain gave me of Laia and Helene and Keris that tell me who she is.

Mamie Rila. My adoptive mother.

She hands the children over to a Tribal healer and hurries back the way she came. Then, quite suddenly, she stops short. Tentatively, she searches the darkness.